They march from safety, and the bird-sung joy
Of grass-green thickets, to the land where all
Is ruin, and nothing blossoms but the sky
Alone he staggered on until he found
Dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair
To the dazed, muttering creatures underground
Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound.
I died in hell. They called it Passchendaele.
Siegfried SassoonHis wet white face and miserable eyes
Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs:
But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell
His troubled voice: he did the business well.
(First verse of Died of Wounds)
Soldiers are dreamers.
Siegfried SassoonMots clés truth-inspirational
Phantoms of thought and memory thinned and fled.
Siegfried SassoonMots clés war poem phantom ghost
For it is humanly certain that most of us remember very little of what we have read. To open almost any book a second time is to be reminded that we had forgotten well-nigh everything that the writer told us. Parting from the narrator and his narrative, we retain only a fading impression; and he, as it were, takes the book away from us and tucks it under his arm.
Siegfried SassoonThe dead...are more real than the living because they are complete.
Siegfried SassoonAll the sanguine guesswork of youth is there, and the silliness; all the novelty of being alive and impressed by the urgency of tremendous trivialities.
Siegfried SassoonMots clés youth inexperience callowness lucky-escapes rueful-reflection
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